


A Wake

by datsunblue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Altered Mental States, Angst probably, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Snape Lives, Snape in a coma, Unreliable Narrator, With A Twist, after the war, issues of consent around all sorts of stuff, true love?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-03-12 01:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3338621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/datsunblue/pseuds/datsunblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 2019, and Harry has just moved back to Grimmauld Place after splitting from Ginny, when he gets some news he had lost all hope of ever receiving. Now it's not just his own life that needs sorting out.</p><p>AKA - The one where Snape has been in a coma.</p><p>* (I really must re-write this summary, but first I have to get The Smith's song out of my head).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Harry received the owl three days after his thirty-nineth birthday.

_“Dear Mr Potter,_  
_Since Mr Snape has no next-of-kin, I thought it best to contact you, since you have been his most regular visitor during his stay with us these past many years._  
_Mr Snape is exhibiting some few signs that he may be moving into higher levels of consciousness. This is, of, course, no guarantee that he will fully awake, but I thought you would wish to know all the same._  
_We have seen movement in his fingers, mouth, and clear signs of eyeball movement beneath his eyelids, which remain shut. I thought it might be beneficial if you came to read to him a few days ahead of schedule this week, if at all possible?_

_Yours Sincerely,_  
_Imelda Lawton_  
_Senior Nurse_  
_St Mungo's Long Term Care Unit”_

He stood in the middle of the kitchen and read it four times before it sank in. Severus Snape, twenty two years after the battle of Hogwarts, might, just possibly, be coming out of his coma. Harry sank heavily down onto the bench, amidst half unpacked boxes on the kitchen table at Grimmauld Place. He rubbed the parchment of the letter between his fingers absent mindedly until the barn owl squeaked at him and tilted it's head. He got up to fish an owl treat out of the clay jar next to the fireplace. “No reply.” he said as he tossed the morsel for the owl to catch. It was gone in one swallow and the owl was off out the window. Harry sighed. It was Saturday evening, and he had missed his regular Thursday visit to Snape this week because of the move back to Grimmauld Place. He and Ginny had finally called it a day on their marriage. It had been a long time coming, and now it was just a relief in a way. With little Lily about to start at Hogwarts there seemed no point in dragging it out any more. Harry was taking an extended leave of absence from the Ministry (possibly a permanent one), while he decided what to do next. Take up the Defence against the Dark Arts teaching position he had been offered at Hogwarts? Move further into training Aurors on a consulting basis for the Ministry? Or get out of the field entirely and try something new? Life was full of possibilities.  
But Snape, that was an out and out surprise. Visiting hours would be over now. He scratched at his beard, which was growing in nicely thick and dark. He'd let his hair get long too. He quite liked how different he looked. Damn near unrecognisable, which was good. He was still stroking his face when his mobile rang.

“'Mione! What's up?”

“Hey Harry. I was just ringing to ask if you wanted to pop round to ours for dinner? I know we were only round there last night, but I thought you might not have got the kitchen sorted yet, and...” He could practically hear her shrug.  
'Yeah, thanks for last night. You've been such a big help, both of you. Well, mostly you.” He grinned, and Hermione's laugh tickled his ear. “But I think I've got it mostly under control. I'm actually craving a curry from that place on Baker Street so I might pop in there.”  
“Alright. Well, I won't tell Ron, 'cause he'll just get jealous.”  
“Ha! Listen, 'Mione, you'll never guess who I've had an owl from.”  
“Well don't make me guess then.”  
“Head Nurse at the LTCU at Mungos.”  
“Are you lining up the hot dates already Harry?”  
“Of course not. They reckon Snape is showing possible signs of waking up.”  
Hermione went silent on the other end of the phone, then there was a quiet “Oh.”  
“You were hoping he wouldn't?” He didn't really mean it, but he knew his confusion came through in his tone.  
“It's not that Harry, it's just..... it's going to be really hard for him, you know? I mean, _really_ hard. He's lost twenty...... “ he could hear the math “twenty two years of his life. And who knows how much he will remember?”  
It was Harry's turn to grow quiet, until he said “Yeah. I guess. Anyway, there's no guarantees he will actually wake up. I mean, I did read some of that research you gave me.”  
There was a distant crash and a yell from the other end of the phone.  
“Oh god, what have they done now? I'd better go Harry.”  
“Yeah ok, Ill talk to you tomorrow.”  
  
He could hear Hermione start to yell as she lifted the phone away from her ear. “So help me god Hugo if you've.......!” and then the signal went dead. Harry stared at the phone for a few seconds, before putting it down on the table. He stared off into space for a while before shaking his head to clear it, and getting up to put on his coat and go in search of a curry.

* * *  
After breakfast the next morning, he went out the door of 12 Grimmauld Place, and from the concealed front door step, he apparated to St Mungo's.

“Ah Mr Potter! You got my owl then?” Nurse Lawton greeted him. She was a matronly woman, well padded and white-haired with kind brown eyes. She had come out from behind the desk and stood, hands clasped together in front of her ample chest.  
“Yes, thank you. How is he today?”  
“A bit fidgety. He seems to be responding a little bit to voices, that's why I thought your being here might help. Why don't you go on through.”  
Harry hesitated.  
“Just treat it like a normal day dear. Routine is probably the best thing for him.”  
“Alright.” Harry gave her a small smile, took a deep breath, and walked purposefully down the hall to room 221.

Snape lay in the bed, pale and sunken cheeked, just as always. So Harry did as he always did. “Hello Professor Snape, it's me, Harry.” He said as he sat down in the chair beside the bed. Though he watched the man carefully for some time, he caught no sign of movement. He sighed to himself and reached down into the cupboard to retrieve the book they were part way through, and began to read aloud. Business as usual. He began.

_“Chapter 25. Oil._  
_The bay crawled with whitecaps like maggots seething in a broad wound. A rough morning. Quoyle jumped down the steps. He would drive. But first walked down to the dock to look at the water. The boat charged against the tire bumpers. The waves pouring onshore had a thick look to them, a kind of moody rage. …...”  
_  
The book had short chapters, so he would read several in a sitting. As he reached the end of this one, last words of the chapter processed through his brain and still queued up behind his tongue, he looked up at Snape, as was his habit.  
  
_“Quoyle, he wants you to write up boat wrecks and get some photos, same as you do the car wrecks. There's enough so we'll always have a fresh disaster.” “There's no doubt about that” said Quoyle, looking at Tert Card.”_  
  
Snape's eye's were moving rapidly behind their lids, as if dreaming. And perhaps he was for all Harry knew. Was he dreaming about poor Quoyle and his strange new life in Newfoundland? Did he even understand this muggle novel? Perhaps it was a poor choice. But Harry had found muggle novels amongst Snape's belongings when he and Professor McGonagall had packed up his former residence and put everything into storage. It had been a rental property, and now all Snape's worldly possessions resided in a magically enlarged trunk in the attic at Grimmauld place. Actually that wasn't quite accurate. No one had been able to break into Snapes office at Hogwarts, presumably because he wasn't dead, his security spells were still in effect.  
  
Harry examined Snape's face now, looking closer than he had in a long time. He had aged strangely. His skin not wrinkling much, as he hadn't moved of his own accord in some time, and he was put into stasis each night, so his body had only aged half as much as it should have anyway. But his whole face seemed to have sagged, sort of falling in on itself, hollowed cheeks and eyes with no muscle to hold them up. No frowns or smiles to enhance character. Though if Harry thought about it, he didn't think he had ever seen the man smile. He was always pale, but had grown more so over the years. In a very strange way, he was sort of beautiful, thought Harry. Even the blue veining up the side of his neck and across his jaw, the legacy of Nagini's venom, had a kind of awful beauty, that brought out the soft blue veins across his pale eyelids. The nurses had kept him clean shaven with enchanted razors, but had let his dark hair grow long, now with a wide streak of white through it.  
One of Snape's forefingers twitched and then stilled. His eye movements slowed and then stopped. Harry cleared his throat and turned the page.  
  


_“Chapter 26. Deadman._  
_The end of September, tide going out, moon in it's last quarter. The first time Quoyle had been alone at the green house.....”_

Snapes eyes began to move again.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I warn you now. The coma stuff is all made up out of whole cloth. It's unresearched and from the gut. The book Harry is reading to Severus is real though. It's The Shipping News, by Annie Proulx. (Better than the movie even). The title is inspired by it.  
> Also, I wrote this by accident. I just meant to write the outline and this fell out. That's a good sign, right? So, of course, it's un-beta'd. Subscribe for updates because I don't know how long this one is gonna run.


	2. Chapter 2

There is a memory. It feels like a memory. Lily calling his name, and laughing.  
“Sev! Sev! Come see!”  
He opens his eyes and she is tugging on his hand.  
“Come on!”  
The sun is low on the horizon to the left, the light strangely pink and golden. Ahead in the distance the clouds are black and roiling. Thunder rolls towards them. He blinks, and when he opens his eyes the storm has leaped forward, and the first kiss of it is upon them. Big, fat, drops. Beside him ten year old Lily tilts her head back and closes her eyes, poking out her tongue to taste the rain. A crack of lightening, and he is shaking, suddenly scared. But Lily squeezes his hand, hard.  
“Don't go.” He whispers.

* * * * *

His eyes are closed, but he can hear music in the next room. An old song, mournful strings that hark back to days before his own birth. He supposes he is asleep in his bed, but his parents never played music. He is still in the grip of sleep, and can not open his eyes. He hears voices, and feels a cold chill. These are the voices which taunt him in the school corridors. He wants to lash out, to fight his way out of the blankets and go and confront them. But he can not move. He struggles to make his limbs obey him, growing more and more frustrated, until finally, his mind goes dark again.

* * * * *

He is floating in a freezing cold ocean. Held tight to a red plastic cooler box. All that keeps him afloat. Strangely though, there were no waves. The ocean is silent and grey like the sky above. Everything grey. A dim line circumscribes the water. The horizon flat in every direction. But if he thinks about it. He isn't really cold. Just numb. He lays back in the water, letting go of the cooler, which pops up and bobs beside him. He stretches out, starfish fashion, his ears sinking below the water. Then he hears the voice singing like a water nymph, but sounding nothing like one, in fact.

_“You know I can be found, sitting all alone, If you can't come around, at least please telephone...”_

The voice fads out, replaced by the background hiss of nothingness. After a while, (who knows how long in this place?) the clouds above begin to shift, and with dawning horror he recognises the dark mark forming in the sky, and the clouds drawing lower, closer, to swallow him. He tries to right himself but instead finds himself sinking backwards into darker waters.

* * * * *

He thinks he must be lying in the infirmary again at Hogwarts. Wonders vaguely what's happened to him now, to interrupt his studies. But Lily is leaning over him, stroking his hair back from his forehead. And that's surreal, because he knows she has never done that. He can feel the crisp white sheets under his fingertips, and he wants to reach out and check if she is really there. But the sheets are tucked in too tight, and he feels so weak.  
“It's ok.” She says, and smiles. “I understand now.”  
He opens his mouth to ask what, what does she understand. But no noise comes out.  
“I wish I could make you understand about the prophecy. That I had to choose, and I'm sorry.”  
He can hear water running somewhere, and feels the bed shift, as if floating.  
“There's one more thing I need you to do for me Sev. Will you help him? You've done so much already, but will you help him this one last time?”  
He has no idea what she's talking about, but he's so tired. So very tired.

* * * * *

_“Jack half-dragged him, half-shoved him into Mrs Buggit's perfect kitchen. “Here's Quoyle I fished out of the bloody drink,” he said._  
  
Saved, he thought, saved. But for how long? And saved from what?


	3. Chapter 3

“Well,” said Michael Corner, “Magic is a kind of signal, right? And the internet uses another type of signal, so the digimagimo is a digital magical modulator demodulator.”  
Harry just looked blankly at him.  
Michael smiled. “It translates. Anyway, looks like your one has taken a bit of a bashing. The bit that does the decoding has taken a hit. Probably an owl. They can play havoc with the signal dishes too, but your dish looks ok. What I'll do is, I'll replace the digimagimo with this newer version we use now that I can install inside the house instead of on the roof. It's got much better magic shielding. Padma Patil developed that. Bloody clever stuff. Still, it's better to install it in a room that sees the least spell use, just to be on the safe side. Maybe, attic? Or spare room? Something like that. How many devices you running?”  
“Just phone and laptop.” Said Harry, scratching his beard.  
“Well this models good for up to four, then the quality starts to drop. You'd need an upgrade if you install a smart tv for example. You use your phone for muggle calls much? I assume you're dual-carrier?”  
“Yeah.” Harry thought about it and realized the last time he made a muggle call had been to order a take-away.  
“Any problems with the signal?”  
“No, it's pretty good here actually.”  
“Yeah, you'll have those good old-magic shield spells. Some of the newer places, built just after the war, their spells can interfere with cellphone reception for some reason, while the spellphone reception is just fine. Wizcom is still figuring out work-arounds for them. Tough nut to crack.” Michael scratched his head. “You gonna be home for an hour or so Harry? I'll just have to pop back to headquarters for the new box. Used my last spare at the previous job.”  
“No problem. I'm not going anywhere.” It was a lie. Harry had felt like riding the trains around London today. He hadn't done it in ages, and he felt the need to get out of the house. But when he'd got up this morning to find the internet was down, he'd thought it better to get that sorted first. It was mid-afternoon before Michael had got out to see him. There was the usual “how's it going, what have you been up to, haven't seen you in ages” conversation. But when Michael started talking about his work, he lost Harry somewhat with the tech-speak. Michael and Anthony had developed the first systems for accessing muggle internet from magical homes. The uptake had been huge among the muggle-born, and he had heard a sort of magic version of the internet was developing out of people codeing spells into websites, but he couldn't get his head around how that worked. Harry was just glad no one had yet found a way to send spells down the phone lines like computer viruses.

The grandfather clock in the sitting room struck the hour, and he was wondering if he would make it to St Mungo's this evening before visiting hours finished. He sighed, and made his way down to the kitchen to make tea and toast.

* * * * *

When Michael returned, there was some discussion about where to put the box.  
  
“This is a fine big attic here. Too good for just storage. You should turn it into the master suite.”  
Harry just looked vaguely around the gloomy space, with it's old crates and trunks shoved down one end.  
“Seriously, a big picture window here and you'd get a lovely view of the sunset. Better yet,” he snapped his fingers “an enchanted window! Bartley and Barnum do a nice line of them. A bit like the ceiling in the great hall at Hogwarts, but not so flashy. You know, tasteful.”  
  
Harry could see it in his mind's eye when Micheal said it. A big round window in the slopped roof, the beams painted white, a big bed up against the brickwork at one end, room for an en-suite at the other end. It could be so different from the dark and pokey rooms of the rest of the house.  
“That's not a bad idea actually....”

In the end, Michael installs the box at the top of the stairs, and gives him the number of a builder who did some extensive renovation work for him. By the time he leaves, Harry has just forty minutes before visitors hours end at St Mungos.

He goes anyway.

It's two days since he's seen Snape, and something seems different. He leans down to retrieve the book, and when he looks back towards the bed, Snape is frowning, just slightly. His eyebrows drawn together a little, and his jaw working up and down in tiny movements. Harry is immediately reminded of being told off in Potions for poorly done homework. He starts to apologize automatically.  
  
“Sorry I couldn't come earlier...” Then drifts off as he feels a bit foolish. Instead he settles into the chair and opens the book.

 

_“...She got in, glanced at him. A slight smile. Looked away. Their silence was comfortable. Something unfolding. But what? Not love, which wrenched and wounded. Not love, which only came once.”_


	4. Chapter 4

He can hear footsteps in the middle distance. Not close by, but somewhere. Sometimes there is whistling, the same few refrains repeated absently. At first he thinks no one notices him, where ever he might be. Perhaps he is invisible as well as blind in this place. But then he identifies a female voice. Much clearer than the others. He begins to assume she must be addressing him. _Good morning Mr Snape._ Sometimes, _Hello Mr Snape. It's a lovely day out there Mr Snape. Quiet day today Mr Snape. Good night Mr Snape._ Always Mr Snape. Not Severus here. Not Professor. Not just Snape, but Mister Snape. Who is he then? This Mr Snape? Someone else who floats? Drifting these strange tides? There's something different about this place though. It seems more.... solid. Despite the fact he has no body here, no eyes, no fingertips. He can hear, and sometimes he can smell. Lily? He thinks. Is that you?

One day, he notices his fingers. Or rather the texture beneath them. Something woven, there are ridges, wool maybe? He runs his fingers back and forth a little, surprised. He wants to look, to see what it is, so he opens his eyes. But it hurts. The light hurts. Everything is out of focus. He feels the tension between his eyebrows, the hitching of his breath. He's breathing, can feel his chest rise and fall, and suddenly it's all too much, and he lets go, slips back under, back into the darkness. Retreat. Retreat.

When he comes back, it's not as bad. It doesn't hurt so much when he opens his eyes. But shifting his head seems to take a huge effort. Is he drugged? He can not lift his arms, or move his legs. But he can see a ceiling above him. High. There are shapes on it, but they make no sense. He squints, tries to bring it into focus, but then realizes, it's dark. That's why he can't see it. It must be night time here. He could have sworn he felt Lily's hand in his, small and warm, and the echo of that feeling she gave him in the pit of his stomach, that aching. He opens his mouth to call out. His lips part, his jaw moves a little, but no sound comes out. I've forgotten how to speak, he thinks. Eventually, he drifts away again. Back to the dark ocean.

Lily, he thinks, Lily. The voice isn't quite hers, but the smell is the same. It stirs him. He pushes towards it. Opens his eyes to light again, no longer so painful. Turns his head towards the voice, and sees a man, there beside his bed. Dark hair, spectacles, eyelids lowered towards the book he is reading aloud from. He slouches in the chair, and he is the most solid looking thing Severus has seen in a long while. So he opens his mouth again and tries to speak, swallows, tries again. Still nothing. Finally, the man looks up. They stare at each other. And it's the strangest thing. The man has Lily's eyes.

“Snape?” He says.

Severus can only open and close his mouth like a useless goldfish. Then the man is up and out of the chair, book discarded on the floor. “Nurse!” He yells “Nurse!” And his hand is closing around Severus's fingers, and he can feel them, warm and sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Severus has short chapters doesn't he? I'm going to blame that on the fact that we seldom remember all our dreams when we wake.  
> Are you still reading? I'm glad.  
> Thank you.


	5. Chapter 5

Snape is awake. Sometimes. But a lot of the time it's like he's not really there. The nurses begin to exercise him, using spells. They float him in the air and move his limbs, loosening and rebuilding muscles. They feed him potions to speed his recovery. But he doesn't speak. Harry tries to hand him a parchment and quill, but Snape can barely grasp it, let alone control it.  
  
“What's going to happen to him?” Asks Hermione one day when he meets her on her lunch break. They sit in a muggle cafe, drinking coffee.  
“He'll stay with me.” Says Harry firmly.  
Hermione sighs. “But what if he never really gets any better? Harry, you've got a life to live, you can't just drop everything to play nursemaid.” She says it gently, and puts her hand over his on the table, concerned.  
“Well, it's not like I've got anything really going on at the moment, so the timing is perfect, really. If he doesn't fully recover..... well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.” He leans back in his chair. “Look, I feel like this is something I should do. Something I want to do. Even though Snape and I never got on, he deserves someone to look after him.” He doesn't need to say the rest of it, not to Hermione. She knows everything Snape did for him, for all of them.  
“If you're determined to do this, you know Ron and I will do all we can to help out.”

* * *

Harry goes ahead with plans to renovate the attic. Ron helps him shift the detritus of the Black family, down to the small, dark, back bedroom on the second floor. Some things are clearly not worth keeping. The moth-eaten fur coats and ancient dress robes. But there is also some usable furniture, that Harry retrieves and cleans up.   
  
He decides to give Regulus's old room a coat of paint, and turn it into the guest bedroom, with Snape in mind. Sirius's old room is already set up for the boys. When the children come to stay for a week before school starts, they all paint Lily's room together. She chooses a lurid shade of purple, and Harry just shrugs and purchases it. He wonders what colour he would have chosen, if he could have painted the cupboard under the stairs at the Dursley's.  
  
Having the kids there makes the place feel more alive, more like home. He takes them to the Natural History Museum for a day out, and Albus loves it. Lily holds his hand, even though she is eleven now. James just shuffles along like he's too cool for any of this stuff, and Harry smiles, thinking how fortunate he is to have them.

Ron comes over one evening to play wizards chess with the kids while Harry goes to visit Snape. The nurses can get him into a wheelchair now, and take him for strolls through the gardens when the weather is fine. So Harry is not surprised to find his room empty. It's a warm evening, and when he inquires at the nurses station, he is directed to the balcony, where he finds that Snape already has a visitor.  
  
Harry shouldn't be as surprised as he is, since he knows about these visits.

“Hello Malfoy.” He keeps his voice neutral, and Draco jumps a little, turns to face him with eyebrows raised. A brief look of resignation flits over his face before he gets it under control.  
“Potter.” His greeting is just as careful as Harry's.  
  
Draco is just as immaculate as always. His carefully trimmed hair is almost white now, like his fathers was, and he wears it much shorter now that his hairline has receded. He wears a well cut black suit with white shirt and slim black tie. Simple but expensive. He stands to shake hands with Harry, seeming unsure. So Harry grasps his hand firmly and gives him a half smile. Draco lacks the arrogance he had when they were young, but Harry still feels more than a little shabby in his T-shirt and jeans and scraggy beard. He greets Snape, who nods at him in a vague way.  
  
“I was just leaving.” Says Draco, reaching down to squeeze Snape's shoulder, and the familiar touch surprises Harry, especially when Snape reaches up to pat Draco's hand in reply.  
“Actually,” says Harry slowly “could I have a word before you go?”  
Draco pauses, then says “Sure.”  
“I'll walk you out if you like.”

They walk side by side down the corridors of St Mungos, both of them clearly uncomfortable.  
  
“Err....” begins Harry, then coughs a little to cover his hesitation, “I hadn't realised you were that close with Snape. I mean, I knew you were visiting, I just.... I only saw you here a few times.” He was making a hash of this. “What I'm trying to say is, I thought Snape could come and stay with me when he gets out.”  
“Oh.” Draco was surprised. “And Ginevera is okay with that?”  
“Um, Ginny and I split up.”  
“Oh. I'm sorry to hear that.” Draco said it in an automatic way, as though he was thinking of something else.  
“Well, it's fine. Anyway, I just wanted to say, that I wouldn't have a problem with you coming to visit. With Snape I mean. You'd be welcome.”  
“Oh. Yes.” Draco raised a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed absently, grimacing as though it pained him a little. “I'd like that.” He turned towards Harry, and stopped walking. “Are you planning to care for him by yourself? I mean, it's hard work. Mum and I, with Dad, I don't know how we would have got through it without a nurse.”  
  
Harry had heard about Lucius, his long decline, his eventual passing. Harry knew death and loss, but not the long, difficult road of losing someone slowly to illness.  
  
“I'm sorry about your Dad. Is it, two years ago now?”  
“Yes. Thank you for the flowers by the way. Mum liked them.”  
  
They had reached the front of the building now, where a wide hallway was lined on both sides by a series of fireplaces.  
  
“Well,” said Draco “Will you owl me and let me know about Snape?”  
“Of course.”

They said goodbye, shaking hands again, and Harry noticed that Draco's fingers were stained. Brown in some places, pink in others, and the nail of his forefinger was a bright and blotchy yellow. It made him feel a little better about his own appearance. Next time he must remember to ask how Draco's alchemical work was going.


	6. Chapter 6

The man with Lily's eyes reads to him, but the man with white hair tells him things. Severus listens, but he doesn't always understand. Harry and Draco, he knows their names. He knows that he knew them both before he was here, when they were much younger. When the nurses wheel him into the common room one day, he catches sight of himself in the mirror, and realises he is older than he thought. That's when he first wonders if they are his sons. Harry must surely be related to Lily, and Severus hopes that Harry is his son, his and Lily's. He sees Lily sometimes. She is reassuring, telling him everything will be fine in the end. But whenever he sees her it brings on a sense of confusion. When Draco is here, everything seems clearer, his mind less muddled. He remembers things. Like Draco talking about his mother, Narcissa, and Severus can see her, can picture her face when Draco says her name, and remembers that he made a vow to her, to protect Draco from harm. When Draco talks about his father, who has died, that's when Severus knows Draco isn't his son. Now he can recall Lucius, he can see the resemblance clearly. He knows Lucius was something like a friend to him, and he wonders if Draco feels some sort of responsibility towards him because of this, or if there is some other connection between them.  
  
Then Narcissa comes to see him with Draco one day. She takes his hand and tells him he will always be welcome to live at Malfoy Manor if he doesn't want to stay with Harry. Severus wonders what happened to the house he grew up in, in Spinner's End. He must have been gone a long time if the lease has lapsed, and that gives him a simultaneous feeling of both freedom, and loss. The loss is mostly to do with Lily, because that's were they were happiest. Before Hogwarts. And then it's like another room full of memories has been unlocked in his head. He remembers the sorting into different houses. How Lily made friends easily, and he did not. How her new friends stole her away from him, and he retreated into his school work, discovering things about magic that he never knew were possible.  
  
But then he also remembers that summer when they were fourteen, hot days spent by the river, Lily's sun pinked skin against his as she hugged him goodbye in the evening, and the way her hair smelled of the grass they had been lying in all afternoon, the feel of her lips against his, and how he wanted more, more, but didn't know what, or how to ask.  
  
He waits until Narcissa and Draco leave before he lets the tears go. They brim and overflow silently, rolling down his cheeks and into the high collar of his nightshirt, where they cool uncomfortably. When the nurse comes by on her evening rounds, he motions to her for a quill and parchment. It's difficult to control the quill, but he manages to scrawl, _Where is Lily?_  
  
The nurse just shakes her head. “I'm sorry, I don't know who that is.”  
  
He will have to wait until morning, he thinks, ask one of the others.

* * *

The night brings dark dreams. Dark memories. He dreams vividly of the hot pot of oil falling on him from the stove top when he was very young, and puts this together in a vague way, with the strange whirling scars down his right shoulder and side. His father, drunk, screaming at him, calling him an ugly son of a bitch.  
  
Arriving home from Hogwarts for the summer before his final year, to find his mother gone. His father hadn't bothered to get in touch to say she had died three months previously. It looked like he had been drunk ever since.   
  
Eighteen months later was his father's funeral. In the dream, his father's bloated corpse is screaming at him from the coffin. _Useless, you'll never amount to anything._  
He thinks there must be a spell to lay the dead to rest, but he can not recall it.   
  
The ocean pours in through the windows of the tiny chapel, and the coffin begins to float. His fathers screams float with him out the door, and Severus is left standing waist deep in a strangely warm sea. A yellow rubber duck floats past him, and something so cheery and innocent takes on a strange menace in this place, it's big round eyes narrowing.   
  
He tries to wade through the water, to get out, but his legs tangle in his robes and he goes down. The moment his head sinks beneath the waves he wakes up. He realises he has pissed himself. Lying there in the half dark of the ward, he experiences the strange suction of the automatic clean-up spell at work.   
  
He lies awake for a long time before the sun comes up. Then he finds, he can finally close his eyes again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies. Delays. Work. etc. You know how life goes. (Plus Draco is mis-behaving for me. Grrr! Such a difficult boy)

The enchanted window is installed in the attic by the start of October. Builders take longer to insulate and finish the sloping ceilings. Everything is white. Whitewashed floors and beams and trim. The window's frame is white, and so are the new radiators. Harry even buys white bedding because he can't bring himself to mar the look. He spends his first night up there in his new bed, watching wispy clouds pass in front of the moon until he falls asleep. He dreams of his mother.  
  
He makes plans with the head nurse at St Mungo's, to bring Snape back to Grimmauld Place in the week before Halloween, if all continues to go well. Snape is getting some strength back, and can manoeuvre himself into the chair with a little help now. He sits and reads the books Harry brings for him, or at least, appears to. Harry watches Snape's eyes roam across the pages, line by line, but because he still doesn't speak, Harry doesn't know if he understands.  
  
He asks one day, what Snape remembers of the war, which is stupid really, so he rephrases.  
“Do you remember the war?” Snape just looks at him, eyes glassy and blank. Harry takes that as a no.  
“Do you remember me?” Snape hesitates before nodding his head, yes. He takes quill and parchment from the bedside and writes, painstakingly slowly, HARRY.  
Well, that's something at least.

The afternoon that Harry arrives at St Mungos to bring Snape back to Grimmauld Place, Draco is there. He is packing a bag with Snape's possessions. Pyjamas, a few books, his wand. Beside the bed is a strange-looking chair, well padded with paisley fabric and lions paws for feet. Tasteful if you like that sort of thing, thought Harry. Draco saw him eyeing it.  
  
“It was my Father's. I thought it would be useful.” He took out his wand, and it was a measure of how much things had changed in twenty years, that Harry didn't even flinch.  
“ _Sellambulante_.” said Draco to the chair, with an elegant double loop of his wand. The chair raised itself up on it's paws and walked smoothly over to the bed. It's gait was strange, because it walked in such a way that the seat remained level and moved smoothly. “I'm not sure if Severus will be able to manoeuvre it without being able to speak the spells, but you can direct the chair yourself. I've written down the basic commands.”  
Draco reached into an inside pocket of his jacket and drew out a folded piece of paper. When he held it out, Harry noticed the stains on his fingers again.  
“How is your work going?” He asked cautiously, as he took the paper.  
Draco saw him looking, and self-consciously curled his fingers into a fist, hiding them from view.  
“Good.” Then Draco didn't seem to know what to say next.  
“I heard you were, ah... well. Muggles would call it an independent contractor I suppose. An alchemical contractor?”  
“Yes and no. Potions mostly. Refining medical potions, some cosmetics, a few... new things.” Draco had just a hint of a smile curling up one corner of his mouth. “I heard you had quit the Ministry?”  
“Yes, well, more like taking a break really. Weighing up my options.”  
Harry felt like this conversation was some strange sort of dance, tip-toeing around a sleeping dragon.  
“You're a man of leisure then.” Draco's smile had broadened, and wasn't that a strange sight.  
Harry realised he had not seen Draco smile since they were children, and the thought made him strangely sad.  
“You and Snape can sleep until lunch and then stay up all night drinking firewhiskey. Actually, I don't know if I've ever seen you drink firewhiskey Severus?” He turned towards the man in the bed, who gave him an incredulous look. Harry didn't know what the look meant exactly, but he did know that the interaction meant Snape was having one of his good days, which bode well for the move. On a bad day, it was hard to get any sort of response from him.  
“I don't know if firewhiskey would really be the best thing for him. Doesn't seem right to give a man a hangover when he has no voice to complain about it.” said Harry with a grin.  
Snape's mouth quirked up at one corner and he snorted a blast of air out through his nose. It was the closest thing to a laugh that Harry had seen from him, and Draco too, let out a laugh.  
“Well, I must get back.” Draco took a scarf from his pocket and wound it around his neck. “I'll come by on Tuesday. I mean. If that's all right?”  
“Certainly. Of course.”  
  
And there it was again. The careful dance of words. Trying so hard not to step on each others toes. It felt all wrong.

After Draco left, Harry tried out the chair a bit to make sure he could utilise it safely before putting Snape into it and heading down the hall to the apparation point.  
Before they left he spoke with the head nurse to confirm a schedule for home visits from Snape's therapist. The strengthening programme would continue, as would the regime of potions, which Harry had carefully written down already and pinned to the fridge at home.  
Nurse Lawton gave him a paper bag full of bottles, which he tucked under his arm as he braced himself to apparate them both back to Grimmauld Place.


	8. Chapter 8

Snape's stomach heaved, and made him dry-retch. An awful sound, so loud in his own ears. But Harry's hand on his shoulder steadied him, and in a few moments he came right. He remembered that feeling, inside-out and backwards, the slide through space, but not the how, or the why. He knew it was something he had done himself, once upon a time, and wondered if he might achieve that again one day. But, where would he go, if he went?

“Well, here we are.” Harry announced.

Snape looked up at the stone face of the building before him, and felt an ominous recognition without specifics. When Harry pushed the door open though, it was unfamiliar. 

“We had to brick up Walburga's portrait. Couldn't get it off the wall.” Harry laughed. “Couldn't have her screaming at guests all the time.” 

He was gesturing to what looked like a chimney breast. An odd pillar of brick without a fireplace in it, just a shallow wooden shelf where a mantelpiece would be. On it sat a row of round stones in various sizes, and a jar of feathers.

Snape let his eyes be drawn up the winding path of the staircase, it's dark gleaming wood banister invited fingers to caress it. But when he reached out to it, it suddenly reminded him of something else, something cool and dangerous, and he drew his hand back in alarm.

“Let's get you settled first.” Said Harry, already moving up the stairs. 

With a flick of his wand the chair followed, moving up the stairs like a spider, but with fewer legs. Being in the chair was like floating down a river. There were no sudden movements, just a sense of being drawn along in a current, all the way up to the fourth floor, where one of two doors stood open, and the grand staircase ended, though a plainer, narrower one continued upward.

Through the doorway was a green-painted bedroom, with a four-poster bed, a desk under the window, and a whole wall of bookcases, half filled with books.  
At the end of the bed, was his Hogwarts trunk, with his initials carved clumsily into the top, worked by his own hand. His mother's initials were below his own, smaller and neater.

“We unpacked your books, but I'm afraid we had no idea what order you would like them in.” Harry stood, hand on hip, fingers in his hair, as if he didn't know what to do next. 

Neither did Snape quite frankly, but he wondered who “we” was. He peered closer at the books, and as he read the titles, he felt a little like someone who wakes from a dream, still grasping at the threads of it, as something that made perfect sense only a moment ago, is now incomprehensible.  
_The 1885 Compendium of Bog Plants and Their Uses In Modern Potions. 50 Ways With Scurrelwort. Advanced Brews For Curious Minds. Making Friends - Making Enemies. Techniques For Improving Your Efficacy...._ the next words on the spine were illegible. 

The books were mostly old, and they filled more than half the wall. He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of them, almost believing he could absorb them, sink himself into them and go without surfacing for days. A small joy filled him.

 

The rest of the day passes with a brief tour of the house, and Harry making a dinner of chicken soup, while Snape sits at the kitchen table listening to the radio, and to Harry humming along. Later they sit and watch television, which Snape vaguely remembers as a concept, but which baffles him in so many ways, including the huge size of the screen, and what the muggles on it are actually up to. 

On the desk in the corner stands a framed photo. A family portrait of Harry with a little girl and two boys, and a woman who could only be their mother. Snape wonders where they are, but Harry's attention is caught up in the television, and trying to communicate seems too difficult a thing to manage. Easier to wait and listen.

He hasn't the energy left to contemplate it further anyway, and he soon falls asleep in his chair, drifting on the unusual tides of television audio, instead of a dream ocean.


	9. Chapter 9

Snape barely stirs when Harry puts him to bed. The light-as-a-feather spell helps with that. Harry stares at this man, lying there, breathing steadily. He stares and wonders how this can be the same man he knew and feared at Hogwarts. He wonders if he ever knew him at all, and if he ever _will_ know him. If anyone can really get to know a person who doesn't speak, who barely communicates at all.

He leaves the bedside lamp on, and stops in the doorway as he leaves, considering whispering a sentinel spell across the doorway. In the end he decides against it, because it seems a bit creepy, too much like locking him in.

Harry heads up to his room, lighting the lamps with a bit of wandless magic, and casting the room in a soft golden glow. One end of the room remains unfinished. The ensuite has only a skeleton of walls and pipes. The tub is in, and functional, but the tiles Harry wanted are lost in transit somewhere, holding everything up. Work has stopped for a few weeks while the builders go on to another job. Harry doesn't mind. He likes being able to look at the enchanted window while he's in the bath. He considers asking for the wall to be removed altogether. Would that be weird? Maybe he should ask Hermione's opinion. He runs himself a bath, and lays back, relaxed in the warmth of it. It's not long before his head starts dropping down, and jerking back again as he pulls back from the edge of sleep. He drags himself out of the bath at that point, more tired than he had realized. He dries himself off and crawls straight into bed with out bothering to dress, asleep before his head hits the pillow.

 

 

* * *

He wakes slowly to the feeling that something is different, though it takes a while to remember that Snape is no longer in the hospital. He fumbles for his watch to check the time, but he must have left it in the bathroom last night. Instead he finds his glasses, and when he looks up, an expletive escapes his lips.

Snape is in his chair, at the end of Harry's bed. He seems transfixed, looking at the window, because he doesn't turn around to face Harry. The soft pink glow of dawn is reflected off a single puffy cloud, that ever so slowly changes shape.

“You alright? Snape? Do you need something?”

Snape doesn't move.

Harry feels more than a little vulnerable knowing that he's not wearing any pants. So he drags the sheet off the bed with him as he gets up to find a pair of boxers and a T-shirt to slip into. When he moves around in front of Snape, he realizes the man is deeply asleep.

Harry stares at him, wondering how long he's been there for. Snape's lips are parted slightly. His chest rises and falls. His expression is soft and blank. Harry looks down at his soft cotton pyjamas, wondering if he is cold. That's when he notices the damp patch. _Damn! I forgot to set the auto clean-up spell last night. I hope he hasn't been sitting there all night in wet pyjamas._

Harry feels awful. With a stab of guilt, he reaches out a hand to wake Snape up.

 

“Hey. Good morning. Let's get you downstairs to the shower.”

 

And so day two at home begins.

 

* * *

 

Showering Snape is rather different from bathing his kids. He tries to aim somewhere between efficient and respectful. Snape can stand if he has something to hold onto, he needs help with the top few buttons of his shirt, and he can't hold his arms up to head height for long.

Harry tries not to stare at the scars down his right side, and the blue black web of veins over the left side of his neck. Instead he sets to scrubbing the man's back with a sponge. He is strangely pleased when an apparently happy sigh issues from Snape's lips.

“Do you want me to wash your hair?” Snape nods an affirmative. He's had weeks of this in the hospital.

Harry's T-shirt is half soaked by now anyway, so he peels it off, and brings the plastic stool into the shower for Snape to sit on. The man's hair is soft, reminding him of Ginny's hair, as he gently rubs suds through it, and takes the shower nozzle down to carefully rinse them out again.

“Alright. I think you can do the rest.”

Harry is standing there in uncomfortably wet boxer shorts and fogged up glasses now. He should have thought this through a little better. Snape seems to be managing just fine though. When he's done, Harry wraps him in towels and leaves him to brush his teeth and what ever else he wants to do.

 

* * *

 

He's down in the kitchen cooking bacon and eggs, when he hears a bell ring. It's not the doorbell. He takes the pan off the stove and listens. But it doesn't ring again. He goes out to the hall, and calls up the stairs.

“Snape? Is that you?”

_Tinkle-tinkle_ , comes the answer.

 

Snape is in his room, half dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed with his wand in his hand. With a motion of his hand, he moves the wand as if it is a bell. _Tinkle-tinkle._

“Oh very clever.” Harry is grinning from ear to ear. Snape's eyes sparkle, and he points to the buttons of his waist coat. There are about 30 of them.

“Fine then. Cold bacon and eggs it is.” And he buttons up every one of them, before it occurs to him that there is probably a spell for this.

 

* * *

 

“Oh yes, I've a book for you! Terrible title. _Spells for Aged and Infirm Wizards._ But there's some handy stuff in there. Shame he's not talking. I wonder if he could sub-vocalize? Maybe that's how he did the bell? Oh, and I've got a spell I think you could use to turn the chair into a muggle wheelchair! That would be handy wouldn't it? You can turn it back of course. I'm sure it would be good to get him out of the house.”

Hermione's voice rolled out of the phone at a million miles an hour.

“Yeah. Well, the therapist comes tomorrow, so I'll see what he says about it.”

“Oh Harry, I'm so glad he's making progress. Do you want to bring him round for dinner on Saturday?”

“Sounds good but we''ll play it by ear, yeah?”

“Ok. I'd better go. I've got hours of paperwork to do before bed.”

“Alright Hermione. Don't work too hard. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight Harry.”

 

* * *


End file.
